


Papa's proud of me!

by CharisaAce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Funny, M/M, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Parentlock, Playgrounds, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 18:31:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12086877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharisaAce/pseuds/CharisaAce
Summary: Rosie Watson's biggest goal in life is to make Sherlock Holmes proud. What happens when one day she throws sand at a mean boy who kept destroying her sandcastles? And why is Lestrade calling Mycroft Myc?





	Papa's proud of me!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fanfiction so bear with me :) I am aware that there are probably a lot of grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.

Rosie Watson was a very happy five-year-old. Her dads, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were spoiling her rotten. Physically, she looked a lot like John, but her character was the same as Sherlock’s. Nurture over nature, as John often complained.

John spent most of his days at the clinic while Sherlock babysat Rosie. She loved walking around with him and sometimes he even took her to solve cases with him. 

It was a warm summer day and Sherlock decided to take her to the playground nearby. There were already a lot of children and their parents but Sherlock managed to find a bench near the sandpit. 

“Rosie, you go and play, I will be reading a book here, all right?” he motioned to the bench. 

Rosie nodded and went to play in the sandpit. She was playing quietly for about half an hour, making at least ten different sandcastles, decorating them with pebbles, when suddenly a young boy, just one year or two older than Rosie, began destroying Rosie’s sandcastles. She at first politely told him to stop doing that, but when he kept destroying her creations she picked up some sand and threw it at him. He then pushed her into the sand. Rosie began crying and Sherlock came rushing to her, afraid she’d hurt herself.

“Sweetie, are you all right? What happened?” he asked her and checked her for any visible injuries. 

“H-he pushed me. Papa, he pushed me!” she cried. “He was mean.”

Sherlock was quickly becoming angry. “Who pushed you?” he asked and waited patiently for her response. She just pointed her finger at a young boy playing with other boys.

“That one in the green jumper,” she sniffed. “And he destroyed my sandcastles too.”

Sherlock picked her up and started soothing her. “Ignore boys like him. We both know what he did was wrong.”

“Are you mad at me for throwing sand at him?” she looked at him fearfully.

“No,” smiled Sherlock. “He deserved it. And when we get home you can tell uncle Mycroft and uncle Gavin about him.”

Rosie giggled. “Uncle Gavin? Papa, his name is Greg!”

“All right, uncle Greg then,” relented Sherlock, secretly pleased he made her laugh. Laughing was better than crying. He never was good with crying children. “What do you say, should we go eat some ice-cream?” he proposed.

“Yes! Ice-cream!” Rosie exclaimed with joy. 

They were sitting in an ice-cream parlour when suddenly Mycroft came by. 

“Uncle Myc!” shouted Rosie and went to hug him.

Mycroft winced at the use of his much-dreaded nickname but nonetheless smiled at Rosie. “Hello, Rosamund.”

Rosie pouted in a very Sherlockian way (one could swear he was her biological father, not John). “Rosie. Not Rosamund. Too long.”

“Rosie then,” obliged Mycroft and winked at her. “May I sit with you today?” He bowed and Rosie giggled. Sherlock just rolled his eyes. 

“Papa said I could tell you about a mean boy at the playground,” Rosie quietly started after she ate her chocolate ice-cream. 

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. “A mean boy? Rosie, what happened?” He was quickly becoming concerned. Rosie usually didn’t call anyone “mean”. 

“Well, I was playing in the sand, making sandcastles, and papa sat on the bench, reading a book, when a boy came to me and kicked one of my castles. I told him to stop, and I was nice, like daddy told me I should be, but he kept kicking my other castles and…” she talked then suddenly went quiet.

“And?” urged Mycroft. 

“I did something that wasn’t nice, uncle Myc. Don’t be mad at me,” she said in a small voice. 

“I promise I won’t be mad, Rosie,” promised Mycroft. 

“Pinky promise?” suggested Rosie.

Sherlock smirked. Mycroft glared at him. “Shut up,” he muttered then turned to Rosie and said. “Pinky promise.”

She grinned. “Okay. So, because he kept kicking my castles I picked up some sand and threw it at him.”

“Rosie!” chastised Mycroft.

“Uncle Myc, you promised!” reminded Rosie. “Papa said he deserved it.”

This time Mycroft openly glared at Sherlock. “You really shouldn’t be encouraging her.”

“Mycroft, the boy was being rude. And she already told him to stop. She took matters into her own hands. I’m quite proud of her.”

Rosie beamed and hugged Sherlock. “Papa’s proud!” she exclaimed. 

Mycroft just shook his head. 

 

When Sherlock and Rosie got back home John was already there watching telly with Lestrade.

“Uncle Greg!” shouted Rosie and jumped on the couch. 

“Hello, princess,” smiled Lestrade and kissed her nose. “Did you have fun today?”

Rosie grimaced. “Yes and no. A boy pushed me and was very mean, but then papa bought me some ice-cream and we also got to see uncle Mycroft!”

“What do you mean, “a boy pushed me”, Rosie?” worriedly asked John. “Sherlock? What happened?” He turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock explained everything. John was positively seething and even Lestrade looked extremely furious. 

“But papa’s proud of me!” grinned Rosie, as if that was the most important thing that has ever happened to her.

“And I’m proud of you too, sweetheart,” said John and kissed her left cheek. 

“But uncle Mycroft wasn’t,” she pouted. 

Sherlock snorted. “Uncle Mycroft is not important.”

Rosie gasped. “Papa! Uncle Mycroft is very important! Right, uncle Greg?”

Lestrade slightly blushed. Sherlock’s smirk turned into a grimace. “Lestrade! Are you shagging my brother? Agh!”

“Sherlock, language,” warned John but he quickly began laughing. “Really, Greg? Is Mycroft really important to you?”

“Very funny,” muttered Lestrade. “Rosie, where did you hear that?”

“I heard you telling him when you thought I was asleep last month,” smirked Rosie in a very Holmesian way. 

John kept laughing while Sherlock looked like he was going to be sick in a minute. “Lestrade, what exactly are you doing when you are supposed to be babysitting my daughter?”

“We didn’t do anything, we just talked!” defended Lestrade. “Honestly, Sherlock, do you think Myc would do anything in front of a child?”

Sherlock let out a sound that didn’t sound even remotely human. “Myc? You’re calling him Myc? John, how do I wash the inside of my brains?”

“Sherlock, stop being so dramatic,” laughed John. “Maybe you should just delete it.”

“Maybe I will!” declared Sherlock and stomped out.

“Why is papa mad?” was concerned Rosie. “Daddy?” She looked at John.

“Papa isn’t mad,” said John. 

“No, he’s just being a drama queen,” added Lestrade.

Rosie’s eyes shot wide open. “Papa is a queen? So I really am a princess then?”

 

Later that night, when Sherlock was reading Rosie a good night story (yes John, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone is suited for children!), she looked at him and quietly asked: “Papa, will you always be proud of me? Even when I do something stupid?”

Sherlock smiled. “Of course, sweetie. I will always be proud of you.” He reassured her and kissed her goodnight. “Sweet dreams.”


End file.
